Stories from Thorney Towers Asylum
by MsDevin92
Summary: Just a little collection of drabbles from the residents of Thorney Towers Asylum...How they got there, what they feel, what became of them. Rated T for darker themes. 'Tis finished! WOOT! XD
1. Gloria: Suicide

Stories from Thorney Towers Asylum

Gloria: Suicide

Man, this one almost made me cry...

* * *

_Suicide._

The word rings in her ears, echoing off the walls of her skull, screaming in her mind, amplified a hundred times…

_Suicide_.

The screaming dies down, replaced by only a dull, pounding pain as she begins to work it out. With shaking hands, she brings the newspaper clipping closer.

_Suicide_.

Her mother had _killed herself_.

The printed words fade and blur, then suddenly shoot back into sharp focus. But now the paper is dotted by large, dark stains as tears well up and roll down her cheeks.

Slowly, barely feeling connected to the world around her, she staggers and falls forward to her knees, one hand over her mouth.

_This can't be happening_.

Inside, part of her has accepted it- part of her is shrieking and crying, shaking and sobbing- and part of her is just numb, unable to believe any of it.

Her mother had _killed herself_.

Even though it had been ages since she'd spoken to, let alone thought of her, she had loved her mother. She loved making her happy. It was the whole reason she'd even agreed to go to that school- if such a horrible place could even be called a school- the whole reason she'd gone.

_Watch me, Mother. I'll be big someday, and you'll be so proud_. _I'll make you so happy._

And then…No encouraging words, no proud smile. No letters, no phone calls. Not a word. Nothing. Just her, sad, broken, and alone.

And then, years later, the letter in the mail, and the paper inside...

_Suicide_.

She used to love reading, finding out every possible fact, and everything she's ever seen, heard, read, been told about _suicide_ comes flooding back to her. People commit suicide when they're experiencing deep depression. When they're not happy.

Her mother had _killed herself_. She had committed _suicide_. She hadn't been happy.

Part of her still can't believe it- _this can't be happening, this can't be real_- but the other part, the part that's screaming hysterically and crying, is beginning to win over.

And then, as the trickling tears become a full-fledged flood, she knows.

_My mother is dead_.

Her sweating hands clench, crumpling up the paper, and she curls up into a ball herself, shaking violently.

Holding her head, she shrieks through the night, and she is still shrieking when they open the door and drag her away.

_My mother is dead_.


	2. Boyd: It Wasn't Him

Boyd: It Wasn't Him

He loved his job.

That was the first thing he remembered, the first thing he was sure of, even when he began to lose a grip on his sanity: he loved his job.

He loved it, the big, bright store full of happy people. He was as much a part of it as the checkout line, the gardening section, the very floor and windows. He was the security guard, the friendly, polite, uniformed man by the door. Kids beamed at him, mothers and fathers nodded to him as they entered and left, people were thankful for him to be there.

Every day there was someone to help: "Oh, you lost your sister? Well, you just head over there and they'll call her for you…" "It's okay, ma'am, I'm the security guard, it's alright…" And every day there was a bit of conversation, a little chit-chat with a familiar face: "Robert, how are ya? How's that treehouse for the kids going?" "Hey there, Joe…Haven't seen you around in a while…Oh, new job? Finally got that promotion? Good for you!"

Then the new manager came, and things quickly spiraled out of control.

He smiled at him when he first came in the door. That was the first thing he did for anybody, really: a small, quiet, welcoming smile. People always felt happier when they were welcome. The old manager, who had recently passed away, had always smiled back.

The new manager didn't, and for the first time in as long as he could remember, he actually _frowned_, unsure and nervous.

He puts it out of his mind. No big deal. Can't please everybody. So he just goes about his job, smiling, helping, talking, being there as a friend.

But one day, he's called to the manager's office, and the tone of his voice makes him frown again.

And he's fired.

It all blends into a whirl, of the scornful look on the new manager's face, of the dim fluorescent lightning, of the cold sweat on his face…

The manager's trying to cook up some sort of excuse for it: downsizing, budget cuts, blah, blah, blah…But he can see through that.

"Why are you firing me?"

Those thin lips curl, and he hisses, "Because I…don't…like…you."

No more visiting the store. No more chatting with people, no more helping. If he catches him around anymore, he says, he'll be sorry.

And his world breaks apart.

He doesn't exactly remember what happens next.

Oh, sure, he remembers the bottle in his hand, the dark, moonless night. He remembers making sure that the new manager was the only one in there (he may have been going insane, but he wasn't heartless). He remembers throwing it, the crash, the splatter, and then the flames…But it wasn't _him_ throwing the bottle, it wasn't _him_ who burned down part of the store, it wasn't _him_ who killed the new manager…

It wasn't _him_. It was someone _else_.

Seeing the blank, emotionless masks of faces on the men dragging him down the hall, he wonders. Do they _know_ someone else made him do it? _Do they know_? Is _he_ supposed to know? Are they on to him? Are they watching?

Yes, that's it…It's the only solitude he can find in the pale, cold room.

It wasn't _him_. It was someone _else_.

_He_'_s_ not really insane at all. It's someone _else_.

And they know it.


	3. Fred: Losing

Fred: Losing

He'd always been a perfectionist.

He loved when he did his best and succeeded. He wasn't a workaholic, no; he didn't seek competition, didn't strive to beat everyone in everything. But when he did something, something he was passionate about, he did his best and succeeded.

He didn't like losing. Even the slightest mistake felt like it was his fault. After all, if he was so good, he shouldn't be making stupid mistakes, much less _losing_.

When he approached the still, silent man huddled in the corner of his room and asked him for a game, it wasn't because he wanted to beat him. Of course, he didn't think the reclusive patient would win, but not because he had a swollen pride; the man was being introduced to a new game- it would take a few tries for him to get the hang of it. It had taken him a few tries…And perhaps his determination to succeed at it was what had made him so good at the game.

"So, now…" He looked at the patient expectantly. He knew his name, but it would be better if _he_ actually said it.

"Crispin."

"So, now, Crispin. This is Waterloo." He smiled fondly at the box. "My wife- well, she was my girlfriend then, it was a few years ago- introduced me to this game as sort of joke, since my last name's Bonaparte and all…"

No response.

"Well, anyway, I think it's pretty fun. Maybe you will, too. Fortune plays a hand in everything, right? You'll never know until you try. So what do you say we try a game?"

Still no response.

"So, is that a yes, or a no?"

A shrug. He takes that as a yes.

"Okay, it's pretty easy, once you get the hang of all the rules. You've got your knights, your peasants…Would you like to be on the offensive, or the defensive?"

Another shrug.

"Well, offense gets the first move…You could be offense. Now…"

He's surprised when it happens. Well, much more than surprised: _shocked_. He never really notices it, but he's always trying his best, testing himself. He's using his strategy, the best strategy he knows, the one that's won him a million games.

And he _loses_.

Crispin still says nothing, but he smiles a little.

"Oh…well…Um…Looks like you won, there, Crispin."

Crispin still smiles. And then he speaks.

"Best two out of three?"

He loses two out of three. And three out of five. And five out of seven.

Crispin's smile is growing with every victory, but he's becoming more and more panicked. He's never lost so many times before…Even when July was teaching him, he only lost twice before beginning to get the hang of the game.

He doesn't like violence. He doesn't like fighting. Logically, he shouldn't like the game. But he does. Maybe because he bonded with the woman he loved over it. Maybe because he sees it as a way of living up to the family name.

That name…It's the one thing that's hounded him all his life. _Bonaparte_? they say. _Like the famous emperor Napoleon Bonaparte? Well, that's impressive…You're probably a big credit to the family name, so successful and all…_

After he loses six out of eleven, it's late. The two of them are tired. Crispin has to go back to his ward. They call it a day.

"Thanks for the game. I had a lot of fun. But my…" The smile takes on a more mocking, scornful aspect. "You're having an off day with it, aren't you?"

And after that, it's nothing but losing. Losing his job, his respect, his sanity. _Losing himself_.

July must've been quite shocked when she came to visit him one day, only to learn that the asylum's head orderly was now it's newest patient…


	4. Edgar: Perfection

Edgar: Perfection

He was never perfect.

Sure, he was popular, but not because he was friendly or kind or handsome. He was popular because of his strength; or, more accurately, the fame and victories that strength was bringing to the school. He was the captain of the wrestling team, the state champion: the unstoppable Bull.

Besides, popularity didn't necessarily mean friends.

Just because he was on a team with the other members didn't mean they were friends. They had been for a while; at least, they had liked each other. But apparently, it had been for the same reason that he was popular. And people always need something to laugh at, someone to taunt and make themselves feel bigger.

They started laughing when he started painting.

_What kind of wrestler paints_? they would taunt. He would ignore them, focus on the easel, the blank canvas, the paint…

Painting brought him peace. It brought him friends; other kids in the art club, other misunderstood but kind kids who he could really connect with.

Of course, that didn't make the taunting better. It didn't change the fact that he was nothing more than a title-winner for people who didn't care about him.

He grew jaded, depressed. Even painting held no more joy for him. He was just about ready to fade into the background and let the cruel world pass by without him.

And then he met her- Lana.

Beautiful. Sweet. Talented.

_Perfect_.

And she wanted _him_. _Him_, the imperfect one. Somebody perfect wanted _him_.

Finally, finally, his world was perfect. He was brought to life anew. He fought harder, painted better. He lived every day with a smile on his face, because somebody perfect wanted him. Somebody perfect loved him.

And then he found out.

He found one of the locker room doors ajar after a wrestling match, and as he went to close it, he saw her- Lana, his vision of beauty and perfection, the one who had brought love and meaning back into his life- in the arms of another.

It all fell apart again.

Lana had left him. He was a wreck. He stopped winning wrestling matches. The school, his teammates turned on him.

But the one thing that suffered worse than his spirit was his painting. He tried and tried, but in the end, every painting was the same: the Bull, the embodiment of every foul thing that had plagued him in life, charging towards him, bearing down on him with fiery eyes…

He cast the painting aside in frustration and cried himself to sleep. When he awoke, he was in a room- a still, silent, colorless room, with nothing but the furious countenance of the charging Bull, and the pain of his own imperfection.


	5. Sheegor: Helpess

Sheegor: Helpless

She is happy.

Living and working in the Asylum, she is happy. Years have passed since it was as it once was: neat, clean, and practically brimming with people to care for and help. Now it is dark and cold and almost nearly empty.

But she still stays.

The Asylum is only _nearly_ empty. There are still people there: people who had nowhere else to go, people who still suffer the deepest of nightmares inside their own minds.

It's all she can do to help. She's not really any different. She has nowhere to go. She remembers the world that looked at her face in disgust, the parents who abandoned her, the cruel, unhappy life on the streets. But now she is happy, helping people.

There's the security guard, the man always guarding the gate. He stands there, his face pale and drawn, glancing around like a frightened animal and mumbling under his breath. On nights when it is especially cold, she sneaks silently by when he is looking the other way; when he turns around, he finds a thick jacket. She can tell he is still unnerved, but he still puts it on, and smiles slightly.

She also brings him food. One time she tried cookies and milk, but after his panicked reaction, she started leaving a mug of coffee and a sandwich instead, and he didn't mind as much.

Then there's the old head orderly. She respected him so much. Now's he confined to a straightjacket, one of the patients, and she helps him when she can. When hunger takes its toll on him, when he can no longer continue his board game, she comes down and feeds him, brings him water, tucks him in at night. He smiles thankfully at her, and, for a brief second, she can see the orderly looking at her before he starts playing again.

There's the woman, the sad, sad woman performing for the rows of potted plants. She hides in the shadows, where the woman never goes if she can help it, and watches the performances. When the play is over, she claps softly, and the woman beams from ear-to-ear, bowing and giggling. At night, when she sleeps and whimpers as her nightlight begins to go out, she whisks inside and quickly changes the bulb. Then, as the woman sleeps on peacefully, she goes about watering the plants.

There's the painter, the mournful, dark-haired man who paints pictures on black velvet and builds houses of cards. She watches as he paints…The pictures, with their millions of neon-tined colors, are beautiful, yet they all turn out the same: a bullfight, a charging bull, horns, hooves, fiery eyes…He throws them aside in frustration. Sometimes, she picks them up; she hangs a few in her room, appreciating the color against the drab, dark walls.

She hugs Mr. Pokeylope as she goes about her chores, sometimes singing softly to herself, smiling when the turtle joins in with his deep, smooth voice.

One night, she sits there, polishing the little crown on his head and fussing with his boots. He's frowning.

"What's wrong, Mr. Pokeylope?" He's her friend, her first and best friend in the big, bad world, and she hates to see him upset.

"I haven't seen Linda in a while…" he replies. She knows most turtles can't speak, but Mr. Pokeylope is different. She doesn't understand the specifics- all the scientific stuff about psychic stones and such- but she's okay with that.

"Linda? The lungfish you like?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Maybe she's been busy."

"No…She'd say something if she was."

"What do you mean?"

"Even when I go down and wait at our meeting spot, she doesn't show up. She at least comes up and tells me she can't spare a minute. The other fish are pretty spooked…They keep telling creepy stories…"

"Like what?" she chirps, but then the door opens. She's easily scared and very shy, so she ducks behind a desk, holding her beloved turtle tight.

Two people enter…She can see their shadows dancing on the walls, hear them speaking. Her blood runs cold. She doesn't exactly get what they're talking about…something to do with brains and mutation and tanks…but she knows it's bad.

"What do I do, Mr. Pokeylope?" she squeaks. He always knows what to do.

"Get help," he whispers. "And quick!"

She tries to get out as fast as she can, but suddenly they know she's there, and something she can't even see is holding her back, and he's pulled from her arms by a horrid clawed hand, and she's sobbing and screaming and pleading…

Now, as she shuffles meekly in the lab, trying to sort complicated papers and experiments, she fixes depressed eyes on him, in that little terrarium over the stove, and wishes she could help.

But she can't. She can't help him, she can't help the asylum patients, she can't help the poor little fish or the children in the camp across the lake…

She can't help herself.

She's helpless.


	6. Loboto: Nothing

Loboto: Nothing

I'll admit that the whole 'Oleander's inner-demons thing' was pretty cool, but I like the idea of our deranged doctor being a more instrumental villain...He makes a good one, dont'cha think? I also don't think he was really that loyal to Oleander...Well, read on and you'll find out.

* * *

He smiles as he falls. 

The tower is shrinking as he plummets through the air, and the ground is growing ever closer, but he smiles as he falls.

The smile grows and grows...A few seconds after he has toppled from the tower, it is just a faint smirk playing on his lips. When he is halfway to the ground, he is grinning ear-to-ear.

He smiles because he knows they are all doomed.

They are ignorant; they have underestimated him, and that will be their undoing.

They know nothing.

He smiles because- _oh, what cruel, hilarious irony_- the one who underestimated him the most was working right alongside him.

_Oh, Morry…You sad, sad fool…_

What…did Morry think that he was just a simple pawn in _his _grand scheme? That he was only a simple _servant_, one who gained all his devices from his _master_? That, without a master, he was no longer cunning, no longer powerful…no longer _dangerous_?

Morry thought he knew everything about his 'servant', the insane, wicked doctor with his clawed arm and mismatched eyes…He was just some raving lunatic, smiling sadistically as he snatched those innocent children away, as he relieved them of their brains and tinkered with the tanks…

Morry knew nothing.

He did not know that his 'servant' was scheming, plotting all along…

He did not know that, in the dead of night, his 'obedient servant' would slip into his quarters, easily find the 'perfect' place where the plans were hidden, appropriate them, copy them, study them…

He did not know that his 'harmless servant' kept a copy of those plans on his person- he still has them now, as he falls- mastered them, improved upon them, made the scheme his own.

He did not know that his 'servant' was just biding his time, waiting for the right moment to strike and stab him in the back...

Morry did not know that he was going to be next.

Poor, poor Morry would never see it coming...The next thing he knew, he would just be another brain in one of those tanks.

He was plotting all along. He will be their downfall.

They do not know that he has not been defeated, only delayed. They do not know that his plans have not been foiled, only set back. They do not know that he is still cunning, still powerful, still dangerous...

They do not know he has survived the fall.

They know nothing.

As he picks himself up from where he has crashed to the ground, his body is shaking. It looks as though he is suffering from pain…at first.

Until he begins to laugh.

It starts as a faint chuckle, deep in his throat. But as he lifts his head and gazes one last time at the nightmarish tower against the dark clouds, a round of shaky, deranged laughs escape him.

What was that saying Morry always used, the one he uttered so smugly whenever he spoke of his innocent and unknowing victims?

_They don't know that their own comrade is their enemy. Well, what you don't know, can't hurt you…Am I right, doctor_?

As he drags himself away, despite the fact that his legs will not comply and he has probably broken a few ribs, he is screaming with laughter, howling like the madman he is.

_Wrong…Oh, Morry, you are so very, very wrong_…

_You know nothing._


	7. Crispin: Comrade

Comrade

Okay, I think the not-so-good doctor used to be an asylum patient before he became it's resident mad-scientist-in-a-nightmarish-tower. As for what landed him in there, I suspect it would've been the unique modifications he made to himself (cause, seriously, most people don't go around with clawed arms and mismatched, lightbulb eyes). As for Crispin...that was a toughie. I was mostly inspired by this AMAZING Crispin fic called the Master's Smile (which you should totally read). I think he enjoys breaking people down and watching them spiral into insanity...

So, yeah. Here we go. Next chapter.

* * *

Crispin sighed.

He was so _bored_. Not with the asylum where he'd been for as long as he could remember, since they'd found him standing over the mangled corpse of an innocent and laughing uncontrollably- no, the cold, sterile halls and lack of color didn't bore him. He wasn't one who found pleasure in cheery smiles and bright, flashy colors. He didn't want entertainment- at least, not by normal standards. He didn't want music or jokes.

He wanted- _needed_- a new victim…Someone new to torment.

He hadn't been able to torment anyone since Fred Bonaparte, the old head orderly. That had been quite a victory in his eyes, breaking him down until he snapped…Now the once proud and successful young caretaker was confined to a straightjacket, sitting in the corner of the common room, his worried mumblings constantly pierced with loud, boastful-sounding exclamations in French.

Now and then, Crispin would throw a snide remark at the ruined man, and Fred's apparent distress would satisfy him for a moment. Fred was different than most of his past cases. Rather than driving him over the edge and howling with laughter when they found him dead, Crispin had let Fred live. He had instilled in him an eternal loop of despair, and then watched Fred suffer, feeding the growing black horrors eating away at his mind.

Before Fred was a long list of victims…Most of them had taken their own lives, however. Sure, there were times when Crispin's deep killer instincts got the better of his normally cold and calculating self…times like when they'd found him with the murdered innocent, laughing so hard that he was practically in tears. But most of the time, he would hunt them, find and exploit their weaknesses, and watch as they crumbled and cracked until only faint shreds of sanity were left.

Oh, how much fun it was for him…The more someone had to lose, the better. Fred had doomed himself the minute he became head orderly, for Crispin particularly enjoyed the irony of driving the sane caretakers over the edge. The last two…He smiled just remembering them. The first had run shrieking out of the asylum and drowned himself in the lake. The second had been found swaying from one of the trees near the entrance with a rope around his neck.

Of course, everyone had known it was Crispin who'd driven the orderlies to suicide. He'd simply talk to them, and soon after that, they'd be unfit for human contact, talking to themselves and shaking in violent convulsions. They'd known it was Crispin, but no one approached him about it. After the second orderly had died, they all avoided him for their own safety, not wanting to end up like the others before them. He was left in his room most of the time, and when they let him out, they steered clear.

For the longest time since he could remember, he had nobody to torment. He was so _bored_.

And then a little miracle occurred.

Two orderlies escorted a tall man inside, and they both stifled gasps as he calmly crossed the room and sat beside Crispin, who studied this new subject with interest.

He was wearing the trademark straightjacket of a more unstable patient, although one arm had been allowed freedom of sorts. It was in a cast, wired to a small, wheeled stand that creaked behind him as he moved, and the end of the cast, where his hand would be, was completely chained up. Most of his face was covered in bandages, although his eyes and jaw went uncovered (the uncovered bits of bluish skin looked almost metallic, Crispin noted, intirgued), revealing two light bulbs in place of eyes- one blood red, one emerald green- and a mouthful of unusually bright white teeth.

The man stared right back at him, taking him in, looking him over. There was a pause as the two sized each other up.

Then the man spoke. "So. Crispin Whytehead, I assume?"

"That would be correct," Crispin replied. "How did you know it was me? And if you do know who I am, then why are you here? Didn't they warn you about me?"

"Oh, the orderlies warned me about you seconds before we walked in the door…which was the exact reason I decided to come over here. You sounded _wonderfully_ sinister, if I do say so myself. It's a quality I quite admire in some."

Crispin smirked. "Why, thank you. So, Mr.- Hmm, I don't believe I've gotten your name…"

"Caligosto. Caligosto Loboto. Dr. Caligosto Loboto. Or just Doctor. Any will do, really."

"Doctor, then. As they say, what are you in for?"

Loboto smiled a bit, looking rather proud. "Oh, they found me a threat to myself. I made a few little…modifications, if you will." He jerked his head at the arm in the cast. "A little bit messy, but overall, a delightful success. Of course, they chained up my handy little claw here. Thought it posed a hazard."

"Ah." Crispin grinned. "Brilliant."

"I know."

A burst of fervent shouting suddenly erupted in the normally still room.

"_You shall not defeat me, filthy ruffian_! Darn it all, leave me alone! _Never! Not until you learn to love victory_! Go away! GO AWAY!"

The orderlies, recognizing the danger signs of Fred's more serious dementia, quickly escorted him back to his room.

Loboto made a snorting sound- Crispin realized he was stifling a laugh. "Quite a job you did on the old head there."

"Yes, it was, wasn't it? Usually I like to…push people over the edge, but I decided to show a little mercy to poor Fred. He deserved it, after all, being so nice to me, letting me play his little game…So I get a little self-esteem, and he gets to live."

"_Mercy_!" Loboto laughed out loud at that one. "Oh, _yes_. Of _course_. How _merciful_ of you, Crispin!"

Crispin laughed, too.

Then he realized what he'd just done. He'd laughed, but not because he'd played a hand in someone's death. He'd smiled, but not because he'd been tormenting someone.

He was no longer bored.

He didn't need a victim.

For he'd found himself a comrade.


	8. Aftermath

Aftermath

Silence.

Fred just stared. Gloria gasped and clapped her hands over her mouth. Edgar's eyes widened. Boyd gaped, jaw wide open.

None of them could believe what they were seeing.

Thorney Towers Asylum- the place they'd spent agonizing years, confined in sterile whiteness and twisted insanity- was burning down: crumbling to ash, blowing away in the wind. The few intact windows had shattered in the explosion, and flames leapt out of the holes in the walls.

A chunk of debris plummeted down and shattered right at Edgar's feet. The artist, however, took no notice.

"It's…burning," he said at last.

"Good Lord," Gloria whispered.

"D-did…_I_…do _that_?" Boyd gasped. "I…I don't remember any of it…I…_destroyed _it"

Fred put a hand on his shoulder. "It's okay, Boyd. It's okay. The place was ruined before this whole mess, anyway."

"I hardly noticed," Edgar mumbled.

"None of us did," Fred pointed out. "We just languished here, trapped by our own insanity. And now…it's over."

Another long silence.

"What do we do now?" Gloria whimpered.

Fred sighed and shook his head. "I don't know myself, Gloria. I mean…I can't go back. God, what's it been, five years? July will barely recognize me…"

"Go _back_?" she squeaked, as though the very idea terrified her. "_Leave_? But…b-but…"

"I know," Fred said wearily, putting a hand to his forehead. "We've all been here so long…"

"And it felt longer than it really was," Edgar put in. "It feels like an eternity since I last stepped out of that nightmarish place…The world seems so alien to me now."

Boyd frowned. "We can't leave. None of us can."

"Oh, Boyd," Fred murmured, trying to cheer him up. There was still a bit of the old orderly in him, after all, and it was still his duty to keep their spirits up. "We'll be fine. We-"

"No, I mean we _really_ _can't_ go back. There's nothing out there for us. We were in an _asylum_, guys. We're whack jobs. Nuts. Mental cases. Nobody's going to treat us like humans, much less let us lead a normal life."

"But we're all better now," Gloria countered. "I mean, look! It's the middle of the night- the moon's barely shining- and here I am, standing in the shadows, and I'm not trying to kill any of you!"

"I finally painted something else than a bullfight," Edgar piped up, relieved.

A single ember fell before them. They watched it in a respectful silence, like mourners at a funeral, until it burned out and disappeared.

"So what?"

"What do you mean, Fred?" Boyd wondered.

"So what?" Bonaparte repeated proudly. "That's the thing, Boyd. We _were_ whack jobs. Now…We're completely new people. Revitalized. Reborn. Who cares about the past? We should be living in the present…working for the future. And I don't know about you guys, but I've had enough of Thorney Towers to last me four lifetimes."

With that, he turned and started for the shore.

"Wait for me, Fred!" Gloria called, following.

Boyd and Edgar exchanged smiles.

"After you," Boyd offered.

"_Gracias_."

Their heads held high and their eyes full of resolve, Fred, Gloria, Edgar, and Boyd marched confidently through the asylum gates.

Not one of them looked back.


	9. Afterwards: Boyd

Afterwards: Boyd

What ever became of the asylum cases? ;)

* * *

Boyd sighed. 

He drummed his fingers on the desk and stared blankly out the window of his apartment. It was a horribly dull and boring day; the sky was a neutral shade of gray, and rain was falling in thin, drizzling sheets. He had nothing to do, and he was bored out of his mind. What a way to spend his day off.

His day off…His eyes flickered towards his computer.

After the Thorney Towers incident, Boyd's newfound confidence and love of electronics had led him to a career in teaching electronics at the high school in his new town. He mostly used his laptop for his job; class demonstrations, grading, and so on. But now the faintly glowing screen piqued his interest.

His fingertips moved off the desk and skimmed over the keys. On a whim, Boyd opened the word processor. He stared at the blank screen.

He liked it. He liked this blank screen. It was something clean and pure, and, combined with the letters of the keyboard, it proposed endless possibilities. A blank screen…A blank canvas. A clean slate.

He smiled. He'd used the term to motivate himself, said it under his breath as he headed for the door of Room 213, Robotics.

_Okay, Boyd, you've got a clean slate…You can do anything you want now_.

Strange thoughts began to come to mind.

Thankfully, they were far from his past dementia- or at least, what he'd been told about it. Sure, he remembered _being_ at Thorney Towers, but he didn't remember what his state of mind had been like. It was as though the real Boyd Cooper had been asleep. Like he'd been someone else.

_Someone else_…That was what he was thinking. The thoughts weren't exactly his own, but instead thoughts of another's story…Someone who was not him, and yet someone who was. The strange thoughts weren't exactly memories, but a feeling of familiarity. A story, hidden and tucked away into the deeper recesses of his mind, and yet one he knew by heart all the same, one that was perfectly laid out somewhere in his mentality. All he had to do now was write it.

His fingers took their place almost automatically on the keyboard, and he began to type.

"Hmmm…It needs a title…Ah, I've got it! 'The Milkman Conspiracy'…"


	10. Fred and Gloria: Seeking Solace

Seeking Solace

Sorry, but I can't help myself- I love this pairing. It's sad but sweet, no? I got the title from one of selanpike's oneshots; Gah, I'm so unoriginal. XP

* * *

She never expected to see him there. 

Gloria heard the thunder rumble, and knew a storm was coming close. She bid farewell to her mother's grave and started to head for the exit, but then something caught her attention- a still, silent figure on the horizon.

A still, silent figure with incredibly long, skinny legs and short, stubby arms. And a face she would recognize anywhere.

"Fred?"

He lifted his head and looked around, searching for the sound of the voice. Their eyes met. Hers were wide with surprise and concern, but his…Although they, too, showed a trace of surprise that he'd encountered his old acquaintance, they were overwhelmingly sad. His face was drawn, and there were pale streaks down his cheeks.

"Oh. Hi, Gloria." His voice was slightly hoarse, and crackled as he spoke. "Fancy seeing you here."

Never taking her worried eyes off of his miserable face, Gloria slowly approached Fred. He was in a dreadful state. Sure, his appearance had improved since his time at Thorney Towers; the straightjacket and absurd 'military uniform' had been replaced by a buttoned shirt and blue jeans. However, his clothes sported treacherous wrinkles- in fact, they looked like they'd been slept in- and his hair was desperately in need of a wash.

Something was wrong.

"Fred, are you okay?"

"Sure. Just…" Here, his voice broke. He swallowed before trying again. "Just paying a little visit."

Gloria looked down. Fred was standing before a grave made of clean marble. At the foot of the grave was a bundle of fresh yellow daisies. But it was the inscription of the grave that made her stifle a gasp.

R.I.P.

Julia Allison Bonaparte

1974-2004

"July," Fred whispered.

Gloria remembered the name. Fred had mentioned it a few times, back before Crispin had driven him insane, back when he had been head orderly.

July…His wife.

"She died," he murmured. "A lung disease…"

Gloria watched Fred, and she knew he was in pain. The wind blew his hair across his face, obscuring the upper half, but she could still see the tears dribbling down his cheeks.

His wife had died. She'd died while he'd been incarcerated at the asylum- two years before it shut down, a year before they'd all regained their sanity and escaped. He hadn't even known. He'd marched out of the dilapidated gates, ready to face the world- only to find that the one person he'd been waiting to see, the person who'd been waiting for him, had died.

"Oh, Fred…"

He broke down. His legs crumpled slightly and he crouched over, sobbing. She reached up and put her arms around him, trying to calm him down.

"It's okay, Fred, it's okay…"

She held him the whole time he cried, holding him and murmuring softly. Finally, he took a deep breath and wiped the tears from his eyes, and she stepped backwards, hovering just beside him.

As he wiped his eyes, Fred's sight cleared a bit- and he was able to get his first good look at Gloria. She'd changed, too. Life had been good to her. Her face was no longer lined with stress, and her eyes were no longer teary and tired. Her hair, instead of fanning around her head to form a frightful fringe of snakelike tendrils, hung in soft wisps of dark red that fluttered softly around her face. She looked beautiful- almost ethereal.

And as he straightened up, she took his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

A wonderful warmth washed over him, soothing both the cold of the wind and the cold of his despair. Her skin was so warm, and so soft…

"Oh, Fred," she repeated softly. She put her arms around him again and held him close. He closed his eyes, lost in a sort of heaven: the silky fabric of her dress, her warm skin, her sweet perfume, the soft tendrils of her hair…

He sighed, and she stepped away, although, thankfully, she didn't let go of his hand.

"I'll walk you home," she offered, and that was exactly what she did, holding his hand all the way.

On the doorstep, he nodded at her and opened the door. She waved slightly and started down the porch steps. Then she stopped and looked back at him.

"Are you sure you're okay?" she asked. "Is there anything I can do to make things better?"

Fred smiled at her as he closed the door.

"I think you already did."


	11. Afterwards: Edgar

Afterwards: Edgar

"Wow, Edgar…That's…wow."

"How you aim to become an author with such a small vocabulary, I'll never know," Edgar joked.

Boyd punched him on the arm, then went back to gaping at the picture before him. "You mean…you'll really give me this?"

The picture was eerie, yet captivating; it was a suburban neighborhood, yet all the houses were unusually alike. Eventually, the streets rose and curled over and around one each other, forming a towering, twisted monstrosity that obscured the horizon. Flickering shafts of sunlight fought to pierce the misty sky, and the shadows leapt up all around- some merely blotches of darkness, and others strange figures, gazing out at him with glazed-over eyes before receding into the mist.

"Consider it a present," Edgar offered. "In fact, if you're thinking what I'm thinking…"

"It would make the perfect cover," Boyd finished, breathless. It was just the kind of setting he'd imagined for the book. "Edgar…Wow, thanks!"

"Thanks from all of us, Edgar," Gloria chimed in, coming up to him alongside Fred. "They're wonderful."

They were both holding pictures, too. Gloria's gift was to celebrate her returning to the theater. It depicted a stage built of dark, polished wood and hung with deep red curtains. It was bathed in a warm, golden light, and a single figure with auburn hair could be seen center-stage, her head tilted upwards and her arms spread wide.

"I absolutely love it," she gushed.

Fred said nothing. Instead, he looked at his picture again and turned faintly pink.

"What about you, Fred?" she asked, leaning over in curiosity. "You never showed it to me…"

"Uh, I don't really think-"

"Oh, come on-"

"Gloria-"

"Fred-"

"Both of you, quit it," Edgar sighed, taking the picture from them. Then he offered it to Gloria. "Here."

Gloria looked at it and blushed, too. The perspective had switched and closed in; now they could see that the woman was looking up into the catwalks, where a man sat, his long legs folded to keep them out of sight. He was smiling back down at her and wiggling his fingers timidly.

Boyd saw it and couldn't suppress a snicker. "Aw, how cute. Just the thing for you two lovebirds."

"Put a lid on it, Boyd," they grumbled in unison, folding their arms behind their backs to hide the twinkle of their engagement rings.

"Just my way of saying thanks to you all for coming," Edgar said, nodding. "Now, if you'll excuse me…"

He walked down the museum hall, admiring the many paintings, waving to the people clustered amongst them. He received many waves and awed looks in return, but merely chuckled and went on his way.

Soon, he reached the place where the crowd was thickest and noisiest- the gallery opening, featuring the works of three new artists…

Including one Edgar Teglee.

He knew the press or something would be all over him in a minute, so he waited on the edge of the crowd, savoring his solitude while it lasted.

It wasn't long before he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Somebody was watching him.

He turned around just in time to see a young woman with thick, black hair hanging down to her waist. She looked to be of the Native American persuasion, with golden-tanned skin, and was wearing a dark leather vest that brought out her silver jewelry. When he turned to her, her face turned deep red and she hastily lowered her eyes.

Edgar blinked, but didn't look away. Eventually the girl looked back at him and waved slightly, smiling.

He smiled back.


	12. Afterwards: Gloria

Afterwards: Gloria

"Ten minutes till curtain!"

Gloria checked her hair a final time in the mirror. She went to tuck a stray tendril back into the arrangement, but then noted that she rather liked the single wisp hanging alongside her face, so she let it be.

She stood and turned slowly around, making sure everything was set for the play. Makeup, check…Costume, check…

"Stop fussing, Gloria. You look great."

Gloria pouted at Fred, who was leaning against her doorway, smirking.

"Oh, you," she sighed, brushing past him as she started down the hall. "You're just saying that."

"I am. I'm saying it because it's true." He followed her, still smirking.

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, Fred…"

"Forgive me for complimenting you," he said, raising his stubby arms in mock horror.

She gave him a playful shove.

"Five minutes till curtain!"

Gloria paused at the side of the stage. No matter how good she was at acting, those dire few minutes before a performance always brought the telltale butterflies to her stomach.

"Hey." Fred knelt down and looked her in the eye, concerned. "Just take a deep breath, Gloria."

She did, and had to admit she felt rather relaxed.

"Better, right? Now go break a leg out there, okay?" He smiled broadly. "We both know you can do this."

"I can do this," she repeated, and then, collecting herself for her character, strode out onstage.

"And five…four…three…two…"

Seconds before the curtain rose, Gloria cast one last look over her shoulder. Fred was lingering backstage, watching, enraptured, like he had during her performances in the asylum garden.

He smiled and gave her the thumbs-up.

Gloria returned the gesture, and then turned back around, bowing low to receive the audience's applause.


	13. Afterwards: Fred

Afterwards: Fred

"Fred, don't be so nervous."

"I can't help it!" he cried, fidgeting wildly. "I mean, what if I trip or mess up or-"

"If you get anything on the tux?" Boyd piped up.

"Oh, no…" With a horrified moan, Fred looked nervously at his tuxedo. It had taken forever for them to find a tailor for him.

"You're not helping, Boyd," Edgar groaned.

"Oops. Sorry." Boyd winced apologetically.

"Do you think Gloria is freaking out this much? Should I go check on her? Cause you should really try deep breathing to calm yourself down when you're freaked, and maybe she's freaked- not that she's one to freak easily, but neither am I, and I'm freaking- and when you're freaked you forget things so I should go and remind her-"

Edgar gripped him firmly on the shoulder. "Fred, follow your _own_ advice and take a deep breath yourself."

Fred did.

When he began to turn slightly purple, however, Edgar cried frantically, "And breathe back out!"

Fred gasped for air and coughed wildly.

Boyd sent Edgar a smug look, one that plainly said, '_Now_ who's not helping'?

"Shut up," he grumbled.

"I didn't say anything."

"You just did."

Boyd waved a hand dismissively. "Whatever. You know, Fred, if you went to check up on her, it'd just be bad luck. And look, I don't think Gloria's freaked enough to have forgotten how to breathe, okay? Calm down. She's okay, you're okay- everything's going to be okay."

"Everything's going to be okay," Fred echoed.

* * *

He certainly didn't feel that way a few minutes later.

He couldn't contain his knees from knocking as he stood there, waiting. How was everyone else so calm? They were all smiling and calm, not blanching as their stomachs twisted into knots and they came to the verge of a heart attack. Boyd was just standing there, looking casual despite his formalwear, and gazing around, amused. Edgar was doing the same, although his gaze kept flickering to a dark-haired young woman in the back row.

He was just so frightened. Any second now, he was going to do something stupid and-

He abruptly stopped worrying when she appeared.

She looked like an angel, dressed in white and gold, with a delicate cloud of gauzy veil drifting behind her. She had pulled her hair back from her lovely face, and around her neck as a simple golden chain. Even across the room, the scent of the flowers in her arms and her perfume hit him full-on, and he struggled to keep from fainting in a dizzy haze of sweet-smelling heaven.

Fred didn't remember much of what happened when she reached him. But he must've not done anything stupid or screwed anything up, because the next thing he knew, Gloria's warm lips were against his, and nothing else really mattered anymore.


	14. Afterwards: Sheegor

Afterwards: Sheegor

Another pairing I can't resist. X3

Come on, you gotta admit it's pretty cute...On with the story!

* * *

"Milla, please don't start with this again-"

"Honestly, darling, you can't say I don't prove a point. I mean, this place is so…so _drab_."

"Agent Vodello, you're-"

"Okay, so I see you've made a slight improvement since I popped in last…That stained glass _is_ a nice touch, darling. Did you think of that yourself?"

"…I have always had a thing for art…"

"Yes, I've seen, darling- you know, that one time you asked me to help with the cleanup from Razputin's little censor-overloading fiasco? I must admit, your mental landscape is fascinatingly…How do I put it? Avant-garde. But it needs some _color_, some _life_! Like those adorable little lamps you had left over from the shooting range!"

"Oh, Milla-"

"Well, I can see I'm not getting anywhere with this, darling. Maybe next time…Let's get going, then!"

"Fine." Sasha pressed a finger to his temples wearily before taking Milla's hand and following her- or rather, being dragged by her- up the stairs of his laboratory. "Sheegor, if you would be so kind to clean up for me, I'd greatly appreciate it!"

Sheegor nodded, stifling a giggle as Milla led Sasha out of sight, jabbering excitedly all the while. The stoic, sophisticated Psychonaut had finally given in to one of her proposals for a night to relax and go out on the town, so Milla was even more ecstatic than usual.

Cleaning up the laboratory was no big chore. Sasha was a very neat man, so there wasn't that much to clean up- just little things he forgot when he was absorbed in his work. A little paper there, a slight stain on a table there…She hummed slightly to herself, much more cheerful than she had been back at the asylum.

But as she worked, she couldn't help glancing back curiously at a large tree stump protruding from the corner of the lab. It just didn't belong there, and it quite piqued her interest…

She knew she shouldn't be poking around like that. It was Sasha's lab, after all.

Still…

It couldn't hurt to just take a peek, now, could it?

She leaned over the edge and peered inside. Hmm. It was a tunnel of some sort, and she could see something glittering at the bottom.

As she leaned in closer, Mr. Pokeylope looked up from his cake and called, "Sheegor, honey, what are you doing?"

"Eeep!" Caught off-guard, Sheegor jumped…stumbled…and toppled into the hollow.

* * *

She landed with a _thump_ on a strange combination between a chair and a wheeled cart. "Huh? What's this?"

"Greetings, Agent Cruller."

"Who's there?" Sheegor called, looking around for the source of the voice.

"Would you like to retire to your sanctuary for the night?"

"Sanctuary?" she repeated, confused.

"Yes, sir."

Sheegor squealed as the cart shot off at a lightning-fast speed, whisking her into the dark depths of the labyrinth.

* * *

The cart stopped abruptly when another beam of light pierced the tunnel roof, and then the chair rose up on a sort of spring.

Sheegor gasped.

She was in a large, high-ceilinged cavern. A walkway led from the stump opening to a platform in the center of the room, surrounded by floating green screens. And…she thought she smelled bacon.

She stood shakily and hesitantly made her way out onto the walkway. The minute her feet touched the steel, the seat withdrew back into the darkness without a sound. She stared at it for a moment before shuffling on timidly.

"Hello?" she called.

"What the-" One of the chairs on the platform spun around, revealing an old man with snowy-white hair and gray eyes. He had a bacon sandwich in one hand, and the other was resting on a holographic keyboard. "Who are you?"

"Um…I'm Sheegor…" She fidgeted with her fingers nervously.

"Sheegor? …Oh, Sasha's new lab assistant, right?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Well, okay then…You just gave me a bit of a scare, that's all. Didn't expect ya to find this place. Did Sasha show you in?"

"No, he left with Milla. …I sort of…dropped in."

"Oh." The man thought on the statement, then laughed. "Sorry about that! I should make a safer entrance to those tunnels…I've just used to that kind of stuff, you know?"

"Really?"

"Yep. Ford Cruller- used to be a Psychonaut back in the day." The man nodded and closed his eyes, reminiscing.

Sheegor opened her mouth to reply, but then something caught her eye. "Oh…!"

She couldn't believe she hadn't noticed it before. Large glass panes in the walls and floor gave her a stunning view of a bright purple stone that lined the cave. It sparkled even in the dark underground depths, looking almost ethereal.

"It's beautiful," she said softly.

"Ah." He followed her gaze and smiled slightly. "Psitanium, ya mean? I guess it is sorta pretty, now that I look at it…"

They gazed at the glimmering stones in silence for a few moments before Cruller turned back to her. "So, Sheegor…Where ya headed?"

"Oh!" She turned back to the stump tentatively. "Well, I have to get back to my turtle, but…"

"I see. You're not keen on the idea of jumping right back in there, are ya? Hmm…Oh, I got it! This'll be a nice chance to test this baby out…"

He set the sandwich down, then walked past her and flipped open a panel on the stump, revealing an array of colored buttons. He pressed the orange one and looked down the tunnel.

"Bingo!"

"Oh…Is that good?"

"Yep. Now, sorry about this, miss…"

He took her hand and pulled her close to him, putting one arm around her back and propping his foot up on the stump.

"Okay, just hold on."

"What are you-"

"Here we go!"

"_EEEP_!" Sheegor wailed as they plummeted down, landing on- this time, instead of a single-chair cart- a sort of bench. "Huh?"

Cruller looked slightly amused. "Oh, I thought it would be much more useful if I could get more than one person around this here transit system at a time. What do ya think?"

"It's…very…wow." Sheegor blushed horribly at her small vocabulary. Cruller just chuckled.

"You were in Agent Nein's lab, right?"

"Yeah…"

"To Agent Nein's lab, please," he addressed a small screen before them.

"Yes, sir."

Sheegor, still not used to the breakneck speed of the cart, found herself holding tightly to Agent Cruller during the ride.

He didn't seem to mind.


	15. Afterwards: Crispin and Loboto

Afterwards: Crispin and Loboto

I can't help but love this duo. I mean, come on: an insane dentist with a claw for an arm and his cynical henchman with a British accent? What's not to love? ...Okay, well they do sort of creep me out, but that's just another lovable quality.

Anyway, as I stated before, I just can't let go of Crispin and the Doctor as Psychonauts villains. THEY HAD TO LIVE!

And I can't help feeling a little sorry for Crispin...Being nearsighted myself, I know how he feels, seeing everything as a blur unless it's right in your face.

Thankfully for me, however, my nearsightedness is not severe enough to solicit surgery from an insane dentist with a penchant for removing people's brains. XD

* * *

Crispin was nervous. 

He drummed his trembling fingertips on the armrest of the operating chair.

"Are you sure you've done this before?" he called uncertainly.

"No," a voice replied from the darkness. "But what's the worst that could happen, right? Oops- ha! Perhaps it's not best for you to think on that, hmm? That won't do anything but spook you more- if it's possible. Ha!"

Crispin bit his lip.

"Are you saying you doubt me, Crispin?" the Doctor's voice called, sounding slightly disapproving.

Like a child who had been lectured, Crispin looked down at the ground and obediently mumbled, "No, Doctor Loboto."

"Good."

There was silence for a moment. The Doctor still didn't emerge, so Crispin just sat there, glancing around like a frightened rabbit.

They had just found this place a few days ago, so it was mostly crammed with boxes and crates. However, in the center of the large, cold, concrete room, a small laboratory had already been set up. Shining eerily under the only light, this area was comprised entirely of gleaming silver metal and lethal-looking instruments. Crispin normally found a twisted sort of comfort in such dangerous tools, but not when they would be applied to him.

"It's just that I'm not entirely sure about this whole thing. I mean, is it really necessary?"

"_Necessary_?" Loboto's blue face emerged from the shadows, although his trademark deranged grin had tightened slightly. "Crispin…How many fingers am I holding up?"

He held up a hand. Even in the dim light, Crispin recognized it immediately.

"That's your claw, Doctor."

"Exactly! At least your eyes aren't _that_ bad."

"My eyes are fine, Doctor," he lied.

"Of course they are. That's why you mistook a ten-year-old in a straightjacket for me and let slip into my lab." The grin vanished entirely. "You've been lying to me, haven't you, Crispin?" he hissed.

"…Yes, Dr. Loboto."

"Yes, you have. Your eyesight's worse than that of a bat, and I'm going to do something about it! Now just sit still and wait while I find those blasted tools…"

Crispin obeyed and made no more effort to resist, so he simply sat there, looking like a frightened kid in a dentist's office- which ironically, he was, in a way. Working as Loboto's assistant, he knew that the equipment had restraints, and he didn't want to press the Doctor into utilizing them. Moreover, Loboto could become extremely unpleasant- and that, combined with his insanity could make him quite dangerous. Crispin greatly admired this, but now it was just creeping him out.

"Here we are! Ready!" Loboto suddenly appeared beside him, and Crispin jumped a little. "Oh, calm down, Crispin!"

Crispin sighed and, letting go of the last of his stress, relaxed in the chair. He would like to see the world as more than a murky blur, after all. Maybe this whole surgery thing wouldn't be so bad...

"See, isn't that better? I find it's always better to have the patient relaxed. That way I can calm them down before I slice them open!"

…It just didn't help his nerves that a deranged dentist/brain surgeon would be performing the cataract operation.

Oh, well. He was already in this far. Might as well just go with it.

"Okay," he agreed, sighing again. "I'm ready."

"Good! Now then, open wide and say 'aah'…"


End file.
